


Blame it on the Rhine

by Snegurochka



Category: Harry - Fandom, Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-27
Updated: 2011-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:46:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snegurochka/pseuds/Snegurochka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the art show of the year (or so Hermione insisted), hosted at Draco and Pansy's elite gallery. Enter Harry Potter, dragged there against his will and lacking any art appreciation skills whatsoever. It might not be so bad, if he could only stop thinking about what happened the <i>last</i> time he and Pansy were in the same room for more than an hour.</p><p>21,000 words. Harry/Pansy & Draco/Hermione. NC-17. EWE. Written for pphpficexchange. September 2011.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame it on the Rhine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Femme (femmequixotic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/gifts), [noeon (noe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noe/gifts).



> Written for femmequixotic and noeon at pphpficexchange. I tweaked the prompt a _little_ bit, but essentially, they wanted Pansy as an art dealer in Leipzig, with Harry annoying her by making disparaging comments about art in the press, Draco/Hermione in the mix doing... whatever they do best, and a background cast of colourful characters and pairings. :) _Massive_ thanks to marguerite_26 for the beta work.

Here's the thing: Malfoy and me? We don't mix.

We don't work together, we don't drink together, we don't trade stories about women, we don't clap each other on the back and laugh and call each other _old sport_. We definitely do not travel together and slink into hotel bars aiming to drain the place of brandy, and then slump over sticky tables with our heads in our hands, moaning about –

Christ.

"Your _problem_ , Potter–" he's slurring at this point, the idiot – "is that you don't have any fucking clue how to treat a woman."

No, really: that's what he says to me.

The side of his head is resting on one fist, and his eyelids are heavy. "You've got to keep them _calm_ , more than anything else. Once they're all riled up about Merlin knows what, then, first of all, you'll never find out what it even _is_ , and second, you'll never – oh, fucking bollocks."

His glass tips off the edge of the table and into his lap as he leans towards me. He closes one hand around it and keeps talking.

I've been trying to shut him up for half an hour, to be honest, but no dice. I fumble for the bottle of Asbach Uralt he got us by snapping his fingers at the bartender and slosh some more into my glass. It sticks to the back of my throat like honey, but damned if I can stop drinking the stuff.

"Your prowess is truly astonishing, Malfoy. I can't believe they're not lining up to go out with you, with that attitude."

"Don't need a _line_ ," he says mournfully, staring down at the table and holding up a wavering index finger. "Just need one woman in particular to stop being such– a– fucking– _bitch_." He moans, putting his head down on the table in defeat.

"Oh, nice. Yeah. I'm taking lessons from _you_ on how to treat a woman. How many engagements have you broken by now?"

He turns his head to the side, his cheek mashed against the wood. "Just the one. And I will light your balls on fire if you ever mention it again."

He gets a brief smile out of me at that. One of the highlights of this entire miserable week in the German rain has been bringing that exact topic up as often as I can. Hey, no one said I can't be a petty bastard where Malfoy's concerned. Besides, I like Astoria – or I _did_ , until she tried to ruin my life three days ago. I'm getting to that. She and Luna are pretty much the only people working in the press that I can trust not to use my cock or my scar to sell papers. Luna does it because she's just a decent person and she likes me; it took me awhile to figure out why Astoria does it, though.

I finally caught on after the episode where I got shit-faced with Ron, Seamus and Neville at the Whistling Wren one night. She sauntered up with a camera, leaned in to kiss up my neck while I was too shocked to stop her, and then snapped the picture. I've still never seen it, but I must have been a sight: one hand on Seamus's arse (or so Ron insisted later, a strange look on his face), lipstick up my neck, and about seventeen empty pint glasses in front of me. When the photo didn't run the next day, I Floo'ed her to ask why.

"Now why would I print what is so much more valuable to _save_?" she asked, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in a leather office chair that must have cost twice my salary. We went out for lunch that day and have done every month since. What can I say? I have a soft spot for the Slytherin mindset.

Anyway, Astoria won't tell me what Malfoy did, but I like to think it involved drugs or prostitutes. Whatever it was, it must have been worth it for him to risk his name being smeared through the press. I _really_ hope it's prostitutes. Not because– I mean, I do feel bad for women who have to live like that, don't get me wrong. But you have to admit, the scandal when that hits the papers would be _brilliant_.

Me. Malfoy. Petty bastards. I think I already mentioned that.

I wave my hand at him, and he doesn't press the issue. "Me and my balls," I say instead, "aren't scared of you. Besides, maybe a bit of fire would be good for them, you know?" I gesture down at my crotch. "Give 'em some excitement for once."

Malfoy makes a face.

I lean over the table with my head in my hands. "Come on, Malfoy. You know her better than anyone. What do I have to do?"

"I'm not helping you!"

"Malfoy!" I slam my hand on the table and he raises his head, wincing as he wipes his cheek. His eyes aren't terribly focused, but then, what do I know? I'm half in the bag here, too. He peers at me as if I'm mad. "You owe me!"

"I do not!"

"You already told her not to fuck me, so now you owe it to me to help."

"That doesn't make any sense." He tries to take a swing at me, but he's still slumped over the table and misses. "Anyway," he says, as if it never happened, "how the fuck would I know what to do?" he says. "Not like she's ever let _my_ dick anywhere near her."

This actually surprises me. "No?"

"Potter. Look at yourself. The thought of fucking the equivalent of your sister, such as Weasley or Granger–" he pauses here and appraises me, but the look only lasts a second – "has about zero appeal, right? That's me and Pansy." He leans back in his chair, slumping down and letting his arms fall uselessly to his side. "There's no sense bothering with a woman at all if she doesn't want you dead half the time, is there?" A tiny grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Verve. Sass. A bit of slap and tickle, yeah? That's what it's all about."

Okay, now he's being creepy, a very un-Malfoy smile on his flushed face. As if reading my mind, he suddenly sobers, leaning forward.

"If Pansy wants to fuck a Gryffindor like you, it's because she needs someone brave and honourable and protective and all that nonsense. Someone who'll fight her like a cat and then make her come harder than anyone else because of it."

"I've already done all of that!" I clamp my mouth shut. Bugger.

He rolls his eyes. "I'm going to pretend I didn't know that."

Agh. I squeeze my eyes closed. "What are _you_ doing down here, anyway?" I didn't think to ask before, not when he was buying, and now I desperately need to change the subject. "Thought Hermione was going to make you show her your Kaputsky, or whatever it is."

He stares at me, open-mouthed, and then closes his eyes, his entire upper body swaying in his chair. For a second I think I can actually see his lips moving as he counts to ten. "Potter," he mumbles at last, opening his eyes to give me a bleary look. "What is it actually like to live in your brain? No, I mean it. I really would like to know."

"Oh, fuck you."

His mouth opens a few more times as if to keep insulting me, but then he waves his hand and exhales. "Ah, fuck it," he mutters. "And it's Kandinsky, you Neanderthal." He looks mournful again. "She was going to make me show her my _Kandinsky_ , but no sooner did I have my Kandinsky out on display for her, she decides my Kandinsky is a terrible choice for her to spend her evening with, and she launches into a tirade about my father, and Dark Marks, and how even the biggest fucking Kandinsky on the planet isn't enough to overcome those things–" he's gritting his teeth now, looking a bit manic – "even though it's been _more_ than enough in the past, I did not hesitate to remind her, and then she–"

"All right, all right." I cut him off. "Enough about that bloody painting."

Look, here I am, stuck in a hotel bar in Leipzig with Malfoy, getting shit-faced because the woman I'm probably in love with (and who Malfoy has not actually slept with, thank Christ) thinks I'm the biggest arsehole on the planet.

Yeah. The fucking Kandinsky. That's what started this whole stupid thing in the first place.

***

"Art?"

" _Art_ , Harry. You have heard the word before?"

I give Hermione my best glare. " _Yes_ , obviously. But you know it's not really my thing."

She doesn't say anything, and her face barely changes, but I know her better than I know my own arm after all we've been through. The corners of her mouth tighten _almost_ imperceptibly, and even without looking, I can tell she's digging her thumbnails into the pads of her index fingers. It's something she does to keep the steam from coming out of her ears. "No," she says, her voice tight, "I know you keep saying that, but you haven't really _tried_ to appreciate it very much."

"Why do I need to appreciate it? You can appreciate art, and I can appreciate other things. It's what makes the world go round." This argument hasn't worked on her in the past, but it's worth a shot.

She sits down heavily in the chair across from my desk, and I move a stack of papers to keep a clear line of sight. "I know." She sounds tired all of a sudden. "I just... there's something in Germany I wanted to show you."

I blink. "That's kind of a huge statement."

She gives me an impatient look. "Something in _particular_. A gallery in Leipzig." She's fidgeting. This isn't like her. "It's important to me, Harry. I've been invited to go there next week, and I'd like you to come with me."

"Like... a conference? Are you giving a talk?" Her quiet tone has dug under my skin pretty good; it's not the kind of voice Hermione uses very often. But I'm still not convinced she isn't playing me just to get me to take that vacation she's been insisting on for two years. I'm not actually overworked. No, really. I just don't like going home at night to an empty flat and a bottle opener, so I tend to stay at the Ministry for long hours. Christ, maybe she's talked to Kingsley, and they're going to _force_ me to take a vacation to some shit town in Germany to look at art, all because they think I'm the saddest bachelor in London.

"No, this isn't about work." She pauses, finally raising her eyes to me. "You know it took me a long time to get over Ron," she says quietly.

Oh, Jesus. I close my eyes, holding up one hand. "Okay. No, I know. It was really hard. I– let's go to Leipzig. I'd be happy to go. Seriously." She's playing me. She is bloody _playing_ me, but there's nothing I can do about it. She'd been half an hour away from dropping her knickers for Viktor Krum in a hotel in Glasgow when Ron sent her the message that they needed To Talk – I know this because Ginny told me later, the shameless gossip – so I _know_ she was not actually all that heartbroken about it when Ron left her. But a year later things are still a bit awkward, and the last thing I need right now are any tears in my office about it. Hermione's already left my office crying enough times over the years – usually on anniversaries of various horrible things, to be fair – that my secretary probably thinks _I'm_ fucking her and breaking her heart every three months. Christ.

"Really?" Her face brightens.

"Yeah." I sigh. I'll seriously do anything to avoid the topic of her and Ron – even spend a week in Germany telling her what amazing talent it takes to paint a solid black square on canvas and hang it on a wall. And that's saying something.

The mirror on my desk buzzes, and I push a button. "Yeah?"

"So. Got your lederhosen packed yet, Potter?"

I take a deep breath before splitting my most earnest glare between Hermione, who only gives me an apologetic smile, and Kingsley's face in the mirror. "Not yet," I grit out.

He just laughs, the bastard. "Can't have you burning out. She's right: you need a week off."

"No, I don't," I say reflexively. "And if I did, it would be to a place _I_ got to pick, like–" I wave my hand – "Quidditch in Amsterdam, or Dark Arts relics in Barcelona."

"Neither of those exists, Harry."

I clench my jaw at Hermione. "You get my point."

"And I thought you'd say that," Kingsley chimes in. It's impossible to maintain a bad mood when he's flashing a smile at you; that's one thing I've learned over the years. The man is fucking beautiful. I'm still doing my best to glare at him, though. "Which is why I'm making it an official mission."

I raise a brow.

"Biggest gallery opening in six years anywhere in Britain or the Continent," he tells me. "Mostly because the gallery owners have succeeded in acquiring the one magical Kandinsky the art world's ever managed to find."

I look over at Hermione. Even though Kingsley knows I have no clue what he's talking about, I refuse to admit that to him.

"He's _very_ famous, Harry," she hastens to explain. "Early twentieth century painter, mostly the abstraction school. We always thought he was Muggle, but there were rumours that he was just passing as one. His wizarding works were hidden and later destroyed. But they found one a few years ago in Warsaw."

"It's been restored and authenticated, and it's the showpiece at the Iapetus Galleria opening next week," adds Kingsley. "While on vacation, you're going to guard it."

I thought that was where this was headed. I fold my arms over my chest and lean back in my chair. "They don't already have a bunch of security for something like that?"

"Of course. But not off the grid, like you'll be. Just be a regular tourist. Eat schnitzel with Hermione. Keep your eyes open. If anything looks amiss, let me know."

"Don't we have another division for this sort of thing?"

"Theft? Sure. That division would be Magical Law Enforcement."

I sigh, remembering every time in the past few months Hermione has dragged me to some gallery or other, trying to teach me to be... what does she call it?

Oh, right. Cultured.

Listen, in my experience, _cultured_ only means some event I can't wear jeans to, or I can't order a beer at, or will otherwise make me feel like an idiot. I clean up all right when I have to, but honestly, I'm never going to remember the salad fork no matter how many expensive dinners I have to go to. Because seriously, why does it even matter? It's great if people want to pay fifteen hundred Galleons a head for a dinner that will benefit war orphans, and I'll put on dress robes and give a speech at things like that, but why do I need four different goblets in front of me when I do it?

Maybe Hermione's right, and I really am not cultured enough to appreciate art. All I know is that things like black squares or yellow squiggly lines that I can draw myself? That's not art. Creepy approximations of actual people's faces? Sorry, I'll take a photograph any day. Random paintings of mountains and lakes, lions and tigers, teacups and pots? No thanks. Or, my least favourite in the world: the metric fuckton of "art" that came out after the war: lone blades of grass leaning in the invisible wind with a destroyed Hogwarts in the background; a grey canvas with a single drop of red on one side ("the blood is _symbolic_ ," Hermione tried to tell me about that one); or the incomparably original Death Eater mask screened over an Auror badge; you could see either one, depending on your angle as you looked at it from left or right.

Jesus _Christ_.

Who even knows why Hermione suddenly cares so much about it, by the way. She's taken to it the way she used to go on about _Hogwarts: A History_ – buying all sorts of things for her new flat, or looking at catalogues of it, or making me go to shows with her. I don't know who she thinks she's trying to impress, to be honest. I don't recall her hiring decorators to place frames in the proper sunlight/moonlight space on her walls, or whatever it is she's been up to lately, back when she was living with Ron.

Then again, I also don't remember Ron spending entire weekends on his back with bloody _Seamus_ of all people riding him like a bull, which apparently was just about every weekend for two years, so maybe I'm not the best person to ask. Bugger, that reminds me: I still owe them a housewarming present.

"Fine, fine." I sigh again, hoping Kingsley picks up on how truly put out I am. "Up the Rhine without a paddle." Germany. _Honestly_.

"Harry." Hermione's giving me another disapproving look, which, come on: I just agreed to do this thing; she should lighten up on me a bit, shouldn't she? "Leipzig is nowhere near the _Rhine_. Come over for dinner tonight. I'll show you the map I just bought. It's spelled to highlight all the places we want to go in blue, and all the places we've already been in green, so that we make the most of our week. I've circled the relevant restaurants and museums, and oh, of course the Iapetus Gallery itself." She keeps chattering away as she gathers her cloak and bag.

I shake my head at Kingsley, but he just laughs again before terminating the connection.

***

Before I go, I Firecall Astoria to cancel lunch for Wednesday. When I pop my head in, she's on the sofa with her feet up on the coffee table, wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a vest that isn't quite hiding the sides of her breasts. Luna is beside her, and they're both digging into takeaway containers. Luna, I notice, has got both a fork and a set of chopsticks holding her long hair up in a knot, while she scoops her food up with a charmed feather.

"If you cancel on me again," Astoria calls without looking up, "I'll print a photo of your cock on the front page."

I grin. This, believe it or not, is one of her standard greetings. "How would anyone know it's mine?"

She lowers her chopsticks. "Because the headline will say it is, and anyone who wants to object will have to admit to sleeping with you." She slants a sideways gaze at me over Luna's knee. "And we all know how pitifully few women have had _that_ supposed pleasure."

Remind me again why Malfoy broke things off with her? They seem like a match made in heaven sometimes.

"Oh, I've always assumed Harry is quite the ladies' man," Luna pipes up, smiling at me. "I'd certainly sleep with you."

"Er– thanks, Luna," I say, rubbing my forehead. "And I _do_ have to cancel, sorry. Week after, instead?"

"I'm busy," she says before glaring at Luna. "You would, seriously?"

Luna looks genuinely surprised. "Wouldn't you? You already know what his penis looks like from your picture."

"I've told you: I'm off men, and besides... _Luna_." Astoria gives me a helpless look as Luna keeps eating, oblivious. "All right, Potter, what's your excuse this time?"

"I have to go to Germany with Hermione," I say, sighing. "Forced vacation masquerading as work. Kill me now."

Astoria's shoulders stiffen. "I see," she says, spearing a mushroom. "The Boy Who Lived is finally shagging the ill-disguised 'best friend'?"

"What? Hermione? Where the hell did that come from?"

Luna looks up from her food again. "That sounded awfully defensive, Harry."

I press my lips together. " _No_. Just, I'm not shagging Hermione. Okay? And before you ask _again_ ," I add, pointing through the flames at Astoria, "I'm not shagging Ginny either, and apparently I'm not shagging Luna, despite the invitation. I'm just getting dragged to Germany to pretend I like art, all right?"

Astoria glances at Luna. " _Very_ defensive."

Luna nods solemnly. "If the list of women who won't shag you is really that long, Harry, I've always thought you might try men instead."

"Okay." I close my eyes. "I'm going now." I make to withdraw from the flames, when Astoria calls out again.

"Wait. You're going to see art. In Germany."

I shrug. "Yeah. I don't know. Some gallery Hermione wants to see."

She grips her chopsticks tighter.

Oh, right. Malfoy's job is something to do with art. I've never bothered to figure out what, but I guess I've stuck my foot in it now. "Ah, sorry. Bad topic."

At that, though, her irritation seems to bleed away just as quickly as it came. "No, no, Potter. Think nothing of it. Say, the paper really should do a feature on that gallery. It's the Kandinsky opening, isn't it, in Leipzig?"

"Yeah. How did you– oh. Yeah, I guess you'd know about it. Sorry."

She waves her hand, all cheery brightness now. I watch her carefully. "Not at all, not at all. You can't be expected to keep track of _all_ my exes and their pointless careers, now, can you?" She gives me an earnest smile. "Now, what do you say to an interview from on site, though? It could be a great insider's account." She immediately raises her hands to me. "I promise nothing funny. Just the point of view of a burgeoning art aficionado as he makes his way through the exhibits."

I try to figure out what her angle is. At least ninety percent of it would be to annoy Malfoy; that's a given. But I don't really see any problem with that. "All right," I say. "I'll owl when I get there and have time to look around. What do I get in return, though?"

"She's already offered to put your penis on the front page," says Luna.

"That's true." I can't help but grin at the solemn look on her face. "Great trade."

"In return," says Astoria, waving Luna off, "I will offer you information that I bet Granger has not bothered to share."

"If it's another map, I've got plenty, thanks."

She ignores me. "Draco runs that gallery," she says, leaning forward to place her container on the table before stretching out on the sofa, her feet in Luna's lap.

"Er–" Wait. Malfoy _runs_ this place? Hermione did not exactly mention that.

"The _Iapetus Galleria_." She twirls her fingers in the air, laughing. "Grandest of all the titans. And do you know who runs it with him?"

"Who?"

"A familiar name, Potter."

My stomach starts to drop. "Astoria. Out with it."

"I think you'll rather like this."

"No. I'm starting to think I really won't."

She smiles, slow and predatory, and pulls her wand out to flick off the Floo connection. Before her living room fades away, though, I hear, " _Enjoy your week with Pansy_..." swirling through the flames, Astoria laughing as she says it.

 _Pansy_.

I sit back on my heels before my fireplace, cursing Hermione to hell and back.

***

Okay. I haven't seen Pansy Parkinson in eight years. Well, no, that's not precisely true. I've _seen_ her, at the odd Ministry gala or through a shop window, but I haven't spoken to her in eight years, and I'm pretty sure she wishes she'd never spoken to me at all, ever, in her entire life.

I can't believe both my boss and my best friend have conspired to make me spend a week with her. Pansy Parkinson is going to slice my balls off and roast them for dinner the second she sees me there. How much could Astoria possibly know? Pansy wouldn't have said anything to her... would she? I sure as fuck never told anyone, not even Ron and Hermione.

Getting _rejected_ by a Slytherin is just about as bad as sleeping with one in the first place.

How would I even have gone about that conversation? Hey, Ron, remember that time your alcoholic brothers took us out to the Hag's Brew up in Edinburgh just after the second anniversary of the battle, because I was whinging about being recognised in London all the fucking time, and we drank till we couldn't see straight, and then Parkinson and Bulstrode showed up, and Charlie did about fifteen shots out of Bulstrode's cleavage before throwing her over his shoulder and taking her upstairs, her hand already down his jeans even as he signed for the room, and you got in that huge screaming match with Parkinson about duty and loyalty and courage and honour and whatever else Slytherins don't care about, and George almost duelled her on the spot, but Bill and Percy wrestled you two out the door, assuming I was going to Floo back to Grimmauld myself?

So, it turns out I didn't go home, at least not right away. She was still spitting mad at you, and at me by default, and one of the buttons on her blouse had popped open and her breasts were spilling out the top, and her face was flushed from shouting at you, and her mouth was swollen from the ice of her drinks, and her boots were firm on the stone floor, and she shoved me into the back alley and dropped to her knees before I could even process what was happening. She grabbed my balls and pressed her thumb against my shaft, and I came down her throat with my legs almost buckling. I should have let her walk away after that, and she got up and spit beside me like she was going to, but her hair was all messed up, and I could feel how wet she was when I put my hand between her legs, and I Apparated us to Grimmauld Place and went down on her right inside the front door.

We went one more round on the floor of the drawing room, eight generations of Blacks watching in horror and delight as I let her ride my fingers till she came, and then I took her upstairs to my bed and fucked her properly.

Remember that time? Yeah, mate. Sorry I never told you.

I put my head down on my kitchen table, the condensation from my bottle of beer trickling into my hair.

***

I _will_ hand it to Hermione for this: Leipzig is sort of brilliant.

The International Portkey ejects us at the top of a hill outside the city. We're shrouded in both natural mist and magical spells, but we can see down into the city, all the tiled rooftops and cathedrals in between towering blocks of grey ("there was a Muggle government there for a long time that favoured that architectural style known as _ugly slabs of concrete_ ," Hermione told me before we left). It's... quaint. That's my first impression. _Chic_ will be another, once we get into the city and start looking around.

For now, though, I'm still trying to deal with –

"Get _off_ , Granger. These robes are nine hundred thread count mulberry silk; I don't need you tugging the sleeves to shit just because you can't stay upright on a simple Portkey."

"I wasn't _tugging_ , you arrogant arse. I stumbled for half a bloody second here, probably because you pushed me, so you can take your stupid silk robe and–"

" _Stupid_ , Granger – that's the best you can do?"

"Oh, not at all. How about this: it looks _cheap_ , Malfoy. Cheap and made by house-elves."

You'd have thought she slapped him. They're almost nose to nose, their eyes burning each other, and I'm about ready to grab the next Portkey back to London for a pint and some peace and quiet.

"I don't even know why we had to travel with you," Hermione's saying. "I am perfectly capable of booking a trip to an art show by myself and enjoying my vacation with my friend without _you_ having to–"

"You are most certainly _not_ capable of booking this particular trip by yourself, since it is a trip to my gallery, on my time, with _my_ expertise on display for you and your– _friend_ , is that it?" Malfoy finally turns towards me. I'm surprised to see the amusement on his face. "Oh, hello, Potter. I'd forgotten you were there."

I roll my eyes. "Funny, Malfoy." Hermione's right; I'm not sure what he's doing here either, except that she insisted there was no other way to see the Kerflotsky and whatever other terrifically special paintings of red lines she wanted to see without him setting it up for us. "Look." I gesture down the hill at the town unfolding below us. "We're here in this place for a nice few days away from London, and Hermione and I have real jobs that are actually stressful and not, just, looking at art all day, so we'd like to enjoy ourselves. How about you just point in the direction of your little gallery, and we'll be on our way?"

Malfoy doesn't immediately jump on my words and pull his wand, which surprises me. I wait, arms folded across my chest, as he wets his lips and appraises me. After a long moment, he turns his gaze on Hermione and lingers even longer. "My _little_ gallery," is all he says to her, and as if they're in on some big joke together, her face actually softens as she looks at him, the corners of her mouth turning up. "All right, Potter," he says to me at last, tearing his eyes from Hermione. I shift my stance, suddenly uncomfortable. "Because it seems I have promised not to ruin Granger's vacation by cutting you into ribbons and using you as paint, I will let that little outburst go."

"Let's just get to the hotel, Harry, and then Malfoy can show us around the gallery. All right?"

"Why do we need him, anyway?" I know I sound like a child, but I can't help it. It's _Malfoy_ , for God's sake. "I can find my way around a bloody art gallery."

"Harry, please, don't be difficult. There are enchantments on this one that make it–"

"No, Granger," Malfoy cuts her off. "Maybe we should let him?" He puts his hands in his pockets and begins strolling down a path leading away from the Portkey station. "He's such an expert, after all."

"It's a bunch of art on a wall! Why do I need Malfoy to tell me to walk two feet to my right and look at another one!"

Malfoy glares back at me over his shoulder. "How many Aurors do you have working under you, Potter?" he asks, his voice cold.

I run my hand through my hair. "What? I don't know. Two teams of six, I guess." I throw what I hope is a _shut him the fuck up_ glare at Hermione.

"And you, Granger?"

She sighs. "Five, Malfoy, and we've had this discussion before, and I have already assured you that you are so very impressive with your–"

"I have five hundred," he says, ignoring her. She gives me a small shrug. I guess I'll take it as an apology for now. "And that's just in curating and acquisition. Pansy runs the restoration half, which is another three hundred people, and altogether we run one of the most elite wizarding galleries in Europe, so you can take your attitude, Potter, and shove it up your arse." He turns again and continues down the path.

Hermione's eyes are darting between us like she actually wants to follow him, but I can barely care what either of them do right now. I'm embarrassed at how focused on Pansy I've been since Astoria mentioned her last week, but I can't help it. The idea of seeing her again makes my chest tighten a little bit. "Malfoy!" I call out before I can stop myself. He pauses, but doesn't turn around. "What– uh– so, Parkinson's going to be there?" Nice. Brilliant. I close my mouth.

He does turn around again at that, and from the look on his face, I suddenly wonder just how much _he_ knows, too. Did she seriously tell all her friends? Has everyone in the fucking wizarding world known for eight years, when I thought it was my big stupid secret?

"Her family's owned it for decades," he says at last. " _I'm_ the interloper, hard enough as that is to believe."

Hermione ducks her head down, and I swear to God she's hiding a smile.

"She's– okay. She's–" I press my lips together. "Restoration? So, she's here right now?"

Malfoy pinches the bridge of his nose. "Granger," he mutters. "You assured me this would not be a problem."

Hermione looks surprised. "It's not!" She makes a face at me. "Be an _adult_ , Harry," she says, her jaw clenched. " _You're_ the one always going on about inter-house unity!"

Okay. First of all, I need to get Hermione away from whatever version of _Imperius_ Malfoy has her under. Second of all... yeah. She's right; I sound like an idiot. "I know. It's fine. I was just... surprised."

Malfoy is mashing the heel of his hand into his forehead, and Hermione is glancing between us with a pinch to her face.

"Okay, well, it's not like we're having dinner with her every night," Hermione assures me. "You're right: we can look around the gallery ourselves; we don't need to bother Malfoy and Parkinson." She glances back at Malfoy, a sly look on her face. "They're so terribly busy and important, after all."

Malfoy has already set off down the path again. "I heard that, Granger," he calls. "You might want to watch your mouth, or I _will_ punish that kind of insolence." He gives her one last glance and then Apparates a moment later, disappearing mid-stride and leaving us glaring after him and cursing the very –

Oh. Well. _I_ seem to be doing that, while Hermione is busy wetting her lips and tugging at her collar. Christ. It's not _that_ hot out here.

***

Hermione has booked us into a cute hotel ("It's a _boutique_ hotel," she tells me, "not _cute_ "), built like a silo, with entirely round rooms and public spaces, a winding staircase coring it that features a different bright colour on each step, and effortlessly bilingual and beautiful staff who seem to be there mainly to judge rather than serve.

My room is on the same floor as Hermione's but at the opposite side of the circle. She looks a bit sheepish when I mention it's too bad we're not next door to each other, but maybe that's for the best. After all, what do I do after entering my room? Drop my bag and immediately appraise the bed. I can't help it; it's been awhile since I've had sex, to be honest, and I can't stop thinking about Pansy.

I stare at the bed like a pervert for a minute, trying to picture her spread out across it. Instead, my brain lands on the memory of having her on her hands and knees in front of the Black family tapestry, my tongue pressing inside her and my thumb circling the rim of her arse. It was eight sodding years ago, and I've never seen a woman come so hard since. I'd have thought she was faking it, if she hadn't collapsed to the rug afterwards, panting and unable to speak, pulling me close for a searing kiss that had nothing to do with the masks she usually wore.

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry, and then head for the shower. Best to get things done in there that will never happen on that bed, I suppose.

Within an hour, Hermione and I have showered, changed, and headed next door to the most pretentious art gallery I've ever seen – which is saying something, since I find it a bit pretentious for Andromeda to stick Teddy's crayon drawings on her refrigerator, to be honest. This one has grand loops of steel out front making the shape of a butterfly's wings, best I can figure, that arch over the entranceway. Inside, chrome and glass clash like warriors, every angle sharp and every surface jagged. The overall effect is harsh, cold, unfriendly. Exactly what I'd expect of Pansy and Malfoy.

Pansy. I'm really hoping to avoid her awhile longer, but we're barely through the door when Hermione ushers us through to a main gallery according to instructions she says Malfoy gave her. I see Pansy across the room. I don't say anything to Hermione, and Pansy herself doesn't seem to notice me. I'm both annoyed and relieved. There are trays of wine being passed around, so I grab a glass and drain it a bit too quickly.

Hermione immediately heads for the exhibits on the far side of the room, so I take the opportunity to slink off to the other side, keeping to the shadows so I can sneak a fag without being told I'm melting the paint or something. I'm not proud of this habit, by the way, but I don't really do it regularly. I'm more of an anxiety smoker, that's all.

I remember watching Pansy smoke at the bar that night, mesmerised by the shape of her lips around the filter and the cool stream of ash spiralling up towards the ceiling. I probably took up the habit myself sometime after that night, come to think. I tap one out of the pack and light it. It's not worth getting my wand out for something so small, so I just think on the command hard in my head and pass my fingers over the thing. Voila. A bright orange flare momentarily lights the shadows I'm trying to hide in.

I survey the room, my eyes landing on Pansy near the bar.

Jesus, she looks good. I mean, I've always thought so, obviously, or I never would have taken her home with me that night in the first place. But as she strides across the gallery, her dark hair is swept up with a few strands loose around her face; her robes are tailored perfectly to her body; and there's a warm splash of skin at her cleavage.

I wet my lips, leaning against the wall and taking a long drag. There goes my strategy of avoiding her. In that instant I find myself hoping that she'll walk right up to me, grab the cigarette out of my fingers, wrap her own lips around it, and blow the smoke against my neck when she exhales, my name dark and ashy on her tongue.

Her hips swing as she places one heeled foot in front of the other and heads towards me. "What the fuck are _you_ doing here?"

Ah. So much for fantasies.

She stops in front of me and plants her hands on her hips. She's moved past the devil red nails-and-lips look she used to favour, I see, going with more muted violet-greys. Her dark eyes glare up at me.

"Parkinson." I nod at her, taking another drag. Cue countdown to complete fury, if I know her like I used to, in five... four... three... two...

"Don't _Parkinson_ me," she hisses. "I asked you what you think you're _doing_ here."

Yep. There it is. A small thrill surges through me. So, it's going to be like this again, is it? I give her a lazy smile. "I'm your clandestine Auror. Although," I add, just to rile her up, "if you ask me, none of this rubbish is worth stealing." I wave my fag back towards the gallery. "My godson could've drawn that picture of the horse in there."

She takes another step towards me, her eyes flashing and her voice low. "That 'picture of a horse,'" she says, speaking painfully slow and enunciating each word, "is a magically inflected watercolour of a Thestral's ghost, and it is worth twenty million Galleons, you stupid fucking idiot."

I shrug, trying to keep my eyes in my head and not think about all the ways about a dozen charities at home could use that kind of money. Christ, maybe _I_ should think about stealing a few of these bloody things. "Auror office sent me to keep an eye on your prize stallion," I say, ignoring the art lesson. "So here I am, whether you like it or not." I try not to let the bitterness seep into my voice, but I can't be sure it hasn't. Eight years is a long time to still be carrying it around, after all.

She hesitates, appraising me openly for the first time. Her eyes fall to my jaw, my throat, my chest before she raises them again. She leans in a bit closer. "As it happens," she murmurs, "I _don't_ like it."

I release the breath I've been holding. "I'm sorry to hear that," I manage.

"I suppose you've got your usual entourage of press goons following you?" She makes a show of looking over my shoulder.

"Er–" I can't help it; I look back, too. "No."

"Harry Potter," she continues, in a fairly decent impression of the worst of London's hounding journalists, "what do _you_ think of the restored magical Kandinsky the Iapetus has acquired?" She rolls her eyes. "As if you would have any fucking clue what you're talking about."

"I might!" I close my mouth. Okay, I _wouldn't_ , that's true, but she doesn't have to rub it in.

She raises a brow.

I fight a grin, but eventually give in. I step towards her. "Give me a tour, then," I venture. "Tell me what's so great about all this stuff."

"Waste of time."

"Doesn't have to be."

"I'm very busy and important."

"You sound like Malfoy."

She smiles. "Good."

A worried looking girl dressed all in black and pushing up her glasses rushes up to Pansy and hands her a file. She takes it without looking, her eyes still on me.

"Tomorrow morning, eight a.m.," she says briskly, opening the folder and sighing before snapping it closed again and turning to stride away. "Bring me a double espresso, and I'll show you some of our less valuable pieces. The ones that won't tax your poor brain too much." She gives me a condescending smirk as she glides away.

I smile. God, I've missed her.

***

I show up in the gallery lobby at 7:54 a.m. I don't bring her espresso.

When she appears from a side door a few minutes later, another stack of files in her hand, she pauses only long enough to express her displeasure about that. "Not a good start, Potter."

I fall into step beside her.

"Also, how did you get in here? We're not open yet."

I glance back at the main doors. "That was your _lock_?"

"Let me guess: your godson could have opened it?" She glares at me.

"Well. Yeah."

"The great Harry Potter," she mutters under her breath, as I hurry to keep up with her. We reach the doorway to a cavernous room, and she stops. "All right." She couldn't sound more put out if she tried. "Here are some Impressionists and Futurists. I don't expect you to be impressed."

She's right: I'm not. I wander into the hall and look around. It looks like a paint bomb went off in here.

 

  
  
_Umberto Boccioni, "Elasticity"_   


 

I stop in front of one of them. "It's..." I make a face. "It doesn't make any sense."

Pansy comes over to stand beside me. Her mouth is pinched, and she stares at the painting for awhile before turning to me. "You're joking, right?"

"Er–"

"Merlin, I'm surprised you can even read."

"Hey!"

"You're not even trying, Potter. I don't know why you're here."

"Okay, first of all, you're the one who offered to give me a tour, and I'm still waiting for that to start. All I said was that this one doesn't make sense to me." I wave my hand at the damn thing. "So are you going to explain it to me or not?"

"It doesn't have to make sense to you," she bites out, "and I shouldn't _have_ to explain it."

"Then how am I supposed to know what it means?" We're shouting at each other and I don't even know why. I'm not really that invested in the painting, this one or any other. I _am_ getting pissed off at her insistence that I'm an idiot, though.

"It means whatever you want it to mean! The meaning is inherent in the viewer!" She throws her hands up. "Why can't you just appreciate how beautiful it is, how much power it has?"

I squint at it again. It's like Teddy swallowed a pile of crayons and threw up on a canvas. "Beautiful. Okay. Whatever you say."

She stalks away. "You're such an arsehole," I hear her mutter.

Her heels make furious work of the tile floor as she leaves, and distantly, I hear a door slam closed behind her.

So. That went well.

***

"There you are!"

The next morning, Hermione rushes in and plants herself in the chair across from me with a _whoosh_ of fabric. The air eventually seeps out of her robes and they settle around her, but her cheeks are still flushed from what looks like a hurried morning.

"I've been looking everywhere!"

I raise a brow, glancing around. "This is the gallery café. How hard did you look?"

"Well!" Her mouth opens and closes a few times. "I mean, I looked in... the gallery. And... the lobby..." She clears her throat. "Oh, all right. I was running late this morning and panicked a bit when you weren't in your room. I'm sorry, Harry, I know I said we'd have tea."

"It's fine." I take a sip of Earl Grey. "But let's back up to the part where you said Hermione Granger was _late_ for something."

She flushes even more. "I– _well_. I'm allowed to be late _sometimes_ , aren't I? It's only human." Her eyes dart wildly around the place as if she's avoiding my gaze. "I just couldn't find my blouse... I mean, the one I wanted to wear... from my room." She presses her lips together.

"Wait a second." I lean forward, pushing down a grin. "Did you _pull_ last night?"

Her face flames.

My mouth falls open, and I can't help but laugh. "Hermione! You dirty dog! Well, it's about time. Ron would want you to... you know." I cough. Er– wrong thing to say. "Move on, that is. Because..." he's been balls deep in his Irish wolfhound for yonks now, and it would make him feel like a lot less of a tit about all the cheating if he knew Hermione was fired up for someone else, too? I decide not to say that last. "Well, anyway. Are you going to tell me about him, or is that kind of thing reserved for Ginny?"

"Harry Potter, I did not _pull_ –" she makes a face at the word – "and if I did, it would not be anyone's business but mine."

"At least tell me it wasn't one of these _artistes_ –" I gesture back towards the gallery – "who keep looking at me like I'm the guy who beat them up at school."

" _Harry_."

I raise my hands. "Okay, okay. Not my business." Why is she being weird about this? Everyone in England and the Continent knows she had a two-month fling with Viktor Krum right after she and Ron split, and I knew more about Bulgarian seduction techniques by the end of it than I've ever wanted to. She was worse than a giggling schoolgirl. When it ended, I asked her why. From the way she'd been mooning over him, I figured he was there to stay. But she just rolled her eyes at me. "Oh, Harry," she said, "Viktor isn't exactly long-term relationship material. Sometimes a girl on the rebound just needs to show her gay ex-boyfriend that she can get more cock than he can."

I wish I were kidding.

Despite teasing her about it now, I never actually want to hear Hermione say the word _cock_ again in my life. She did have half a litre of tequila in her that night, though, so I guess I shouldn't judge.

"Next subject," she says briskly, giving me an impish look. "What is it going to take for you to be civil to Parkinson?"

"Excuse me? Since when do you care?"

"Since you two and your cat fights are ruining my trip to Germany." She lifts her chin and gazes down at me. She might have a point. After the aborted "tour" yesterday morning, we encountered each other a total of what seemed like twenty-five times throughout the day, usually when I had Hermione in tow, and every single time Pansy found a new way to insult my intelligence.

I rub my eyes under my glasses. "Come on. She's completely unreasonable. _And_ she hates my guts. Besides," I add, more than a little invested in changing the subject, "I don't exactly see _you_ making nice with Malfoy."

Her eyes widen.

"You two are fighting all the time, too!" I try to lift my chin even higher than hers. "So don't go throwing stones from that glass house of yours."

"I– _Harry_. I don't exactly–"

"Look, I'm just saying, I think you can leave me alone about Parkinson."

She's quiet for a moment, sipping her tea. "It's just... I really think that all of us who fought in the war, we can..." She presses her lips together. "Maybe it's time to move on, you know? Maybe we made snap judgements about people when we were kids, and it's time to let them go."

"It's not exactly a snap judgement with Pansy," I point out, even though I _have_ long since left that behind. It's not that. It's everything else about her that I can't let go of.

"Harry." She folds her hands around her cup. "I wanted you to come here with me because there's something we need to talk about."

"Hermione, please. I get it, okay? You want me to make nice with the Slytherins because you've decided you like their art gallery."

"No, just listen–"

"I'll try, all right? Malfoy's been... fine, I guess, although I still think he's up to something. He's far too interested in your itinerary, for one thing."

She gives me a helpless look, but says nothing.

"But Pansy..." I run my hand through my hair. "I don't know. I'll try, okay? That's all I can tell you."

"Okay, Harry." She sighs. "Thank you."

***

I'm determined to be smarter about art. Maybe Pansy's right, and I haven't really been trying. So here I am, standing in front of this thing and trying to make sense of it.

I tilt my head to the side to see if that helps.

"You're going to sprain something, Potter."

I don't turn around, but my jaw tightens. "Leave me alone," I say, trying to keep my tone light. "I'm busy appreciating art."

The slow clack of heels signals her approach. I try my best not to turn around, but that's a lost cause. Once she's beside me, I glance sideways at her. My breath catches. Her robes are deep crimson with gold trim, simple and elegant, and the contrast with her dark, upswept hair is stunning. Her mouth twitches, and she leans a bit closer to me. "The art's that way," she murmurs, pointing to the wall.

My face heats. I can't help it; I laugh in embarrassment, dropping my gaze to the floor. "Sorry." I rub my face and slowly meet her eyes again. "Got distracted."

Now it's her turn to flush, and _fuck_ , doesn't that look pretty against her dark eyes. We stand there for a long moment, and I don't think I've ever seen Pansy Parkinson at a loss for words before. Since we got here, I haven't been able to put my own memories aside long enough to bother wondering if _she_ ever thinks about that night too, if seeing me has affected her in any way whatsoever, if she's looked at me this week and remembered what it felt like when I touched her.

I can't believe I'm not allowed to touch her right now. I can't believe I was ever stupid enough to leave it at only one night. "Pansy. Listen, I–"

"This one doesn't really seem like your cuppa, Potter," she cuts in, back to her all-business tone. She turns to face the painting, folding her arms over her chest. Closing herself off.

I sigh. "Yeah. No. It's not. But, I mean, I'm trying." I chew on my lip. "Kind of. It, uh." I scratch the back of my neck. "Darkness and fire?"

 

  
  
_Kasimir Malevich, "Peinture Suprematiste"_   


 

She gives me a pitying, cringing look, like one might at a mother whose child has just sicked up all over the counter at a shop. I frown, but then she lays her hand over my arm and gently squeezes. "Keep trying, Potter," she says. She saunters away but pauses to glance back at me over her shoulder, an amused smile on her lips.

I can't help but smile back. I look at the painting again.

Keep trying.

***

Hermione is aghast when I suggest we skip the opening gala for Malfoy and Pansy's famous new painting.

"The Kandinsky opening is the whole reason we're here!"

"I know, but..." I shrug. Wandering around the place by myself, or in the company of other badly dressed tourists, has been more than enough for me. I don't know if I can handle making cocktail party small talk with Europe's art-crazed bourgeoisie.

She sighs but seems to understand, reclining in the armchair by the window in my room. "You'll be fine, Harry. Just nod and smile and gesture to the colour palette, if anyone asks your opinion."

I throw a balled up sock at her.

"I mean it!" She laughs. "That's what I say. I don't get half this stuff either, but it's pretty to look at."

I stare at her. "Wait. You don't?"

She flushes.

"Then why all the business about art lately?"

She looks out the window, her voice suddenly soft. "Funny you should ask. I thought..." She pauses, the fingers of one hand light against her lips like she's lost in thought. "I thought you might like to come here with me so I could show you why this place is important to me," she says at last. "I know I haven't explained why, but I _want_ to. I'm just..."

"It's okay. You're allowed to like art."

"Well, it's more than that, Harry."

"Then what is it?" I sit down on the edge of the bed, close enough to her chair to take her hand.

She glances down and to my horror, there are tears in her eyes.

"Um. Hermione?"

But she quickly brushes them away, squeezing my hand. "No, it's not... it's nothing bad." She laughs, then covers her mouth. "Not at all. I just... we'll talk later, okay?"

"I– okay." I lean forward. "You're all right?"

"Yes." She smiles, genuinely this time. "I'm more than all right. Come with me tonight, Harry," she murmurs, wiping her cheek again. "We'll get drunk on Malfoy's champagne and make fun of the aristocracy."

"So that's why you want to go," I grumble, but I'm grinning at her. "Malfoy's champagne."

She laughs again, covering her face with her hands. "Something like that."

***

It's just as bad as I thought it would be.

The hors d'oeuvre are finicky, hardly anyone is wearing anything other than black, and the star painting itself is kind of a monstrosity. I think I underestimated how much this crowd would actually be interested in me; I've had to resort to the colour palette line more times than I can count. Most people give me an odd look but then nod and move away. Hermione is making herself scarce, the traitor.

Finally, I spot her across the room and make my way over.

"There isn't enough champagne in the world for this," I mutter, and she giggles, cuffing me on the arm.

"It's not so bad!"

"Where have you been, anyway?"

"Oh... mingling. Have you tried the miniature quiches?"

"I can't figure out how to eat them."

"Just put them in your mouth!"

"Then there's cheese all over my hand."

" _Harry_."

"What?"

"I know your aunt and uncle were awful, but you weren't _actually_ raised by wolves, were you?"

I grin, nudging her shoulder with mine. "Oh, shut up. You just fancy yourself part of this art crowd now, so you can make fun of me like Parkinson."

She laughs.

"Hermione."

The voice is low and thick behind us, and even before I turn around, I have to hide my amusement. I let Hermione turn first, doing her best to shield her expression from me.

"Oh, hello, Viktor," she says stiffly, offering her hand. He takes it, but only to use it to guide her closer. He leans in to kiss her once on each cheek instead of shaking her hand, his mouth lingering near her left ear.

"It is good to see you here," he says. He pulls back and finally transfers his gaze to me. "And you, Harry."

"Viktor." He does shake my offered hand, giving me a shy smile.

"What are you doing here?" he asks Hermione.

"Great question," I mutter, taking a long drink. He chuckles.

"Let me guess. Art is not a thing you like to do."

"That's a very nice way of putting it," I say, grinning. We clink glasses, and he winks at me.

"Don't tell me you're the same as Harry!" Hermione trills at him, putting on a dramatic sigh. "I've been trying to get him to appreciate these beautiful works all week." She gestures around at the walls.

"Ah, but perhaps your efforts should not be on the walls? Maybe the beauty is somewhere else..." His English still isn't great, but damned if his voice and his confidence don't have Hermione eating out of the palm of his hand. He pushes a stray curl behind her ear and lets his thumb trail down the side of her cheek. I look away.

"Three's a crowd, Potter." Pansy's voice slides up my spine, and I close my eyes for a moment before turning around. Her mouth is far too close to the back of my neck.

"Was just thinking that." I catch Hermione's eye and shrug, but then I let Pansy steer me by the elbow towards a shockingly gorgeous man in a penguin suit offering me champagne. I take it, and he gives me a far too interested smile.

"Thank you, darling," Pansy murmurs to him, her hand light on his shoulder. "Tend to the _drinks_ for now, would you?"

He gives me one last, lingering look before moving his tray elsewhere. I blink at Pansy. She's trying to keep her smile down, raising her eyebrows at me instead. "Don't tell me you're interested, Potter. He does have the most beautiful mouth, doesn't he?" She sighs, watching his arse as he walks away. My stomach twists at the thought of how she knows that, before my brain kicks in and I realise this is exactly the reaction she's hoping for.

I shrug. "If you like that sort of thing."

She laughs, linking arms with me and nodding back the way we came, Viktor with one arm around Hermione's waist now as he whispers in her ear. Her face is flushed and her eyes are wide. "So," says Pansy, "shall we watch the fireworks?"

I barely have time to ask her what she's on about when suddenly Malfoy is striding across the gallery, his shoulders squared in his deep grey robes and his fingers clenched around his champagne flute. Viktor might be bulkier, but Malfoy's got him in height and... I can't put my finger on it. _Finesse_ , maybe. Hermione slips out of Viktor's arms and moves away, her face looking almost panicked as Malfoy approaches. She's shaking her head and holding out her hand, palm up, as if to stop him.

"Draco." I see her lips move. " _Don't_."

I glance at Pansy. "What's this about?"

She sighs, squeezing my arm. "You're adorable, Potter. You really are."

Hermione seemed to be anticipating a confrontation for some reason, but Malfoy only extends his hand to Viktor and squeezes it once, firmly from the looks of it. He is smiling and asking after Quidditch scores, from what I can catch of what he's saying. Hermione is glaring at him, but as he speaks, his chin raised and his entire body radiating the authority of a man who does actually own most of this entire gallery, her face softens. Her eyes never leave him.

"What am I watching, exactly?" I murmur to Pansy. She's standing so close to me, and she smells like something floral under the faint aura of cigarettes, and I want to lean in and let my lips touch her neck.

"Wait for it... Aha."

Malfoy is clapping Viktor on the shoulder now, inclining his head towards Viktor's ear. Viktor is studying the floor, his jaw tight. Hermione, for her part, has moved off to the side, taking large gulps of champagne and looking nervously back at the two men.

"I imagine," says Pansy, "that this is the part where Draco tells Krum he's got photos of him with his cock in the mouths of a few of the richest wives in Germany _and_ Bulgaria, including at least one stadium owner, and if he doesn't get that well-toned arse of his away from Granger and this fucking gallery, his dick will be on the front page tomorrow morning."

Mouth open, I glance at her. "I... don't need to ask where he got those pictures, do I?"

"Astoria does enjoy the threat of front page cock, doesn't she?"

I laugh. "Yeah. I think Hermione does still have a thing for Viktor." I turn to see her heading across the room and out a side door, glancing over her shoulder.

"Not after tonight she won't," mutters Pansy.

Malfoy follows her, and to be honest, I almost want to tell him that's a pretty bad idea; he just cockblocked Hermione something fierce, after all. She's not going to be too pleased about that.

Pansy sighs – from my lack of attention, I realise too late – and moves away.

"Wait." I grasp her wrist, but she shakes it free with a flick.

"Must mingle," she says lightly. Glancing back over her shoulder at me, she adds, "Don't fuck my wait staff, all right? They're all going to offer at some point."

I grin at her and give her a salute.

***

"All right, I'm ready. Tell me everything."

I laugh, propping myself up against the footboard of my bed with my legs stretched out on the floor towards the fireplace. Astoria's face is bobbing in the flames. "You look far too eager for this."

"Oh, screw the interview," she says, waving her hand. "Just tell me something stupid, horrible, or embarrassing that Draco's done so far." She rests her chin in her hands, grinning.

"Well," I begin, scratching my jaw, "I believe I saw him threaten to ruin Viktor Krum's career at one point last night."

She makes an annoyed sound. "Oh, I knew I shouldn't have told him about that. Let me guess: Krum got a bit too close to Granger."

"Er– yeah. How did you know?"

"How do you _not_? Merlin, Harry." She's laughing, which is totally infectious, so I ignore the jibe.

"Look, all I know is that if this is the biggest art show of the year, I weep for humanity."

She takes a pull on her beer bottle, smiling at me. "Still not your cuppa, then?"

"It's _ridiculous_!" I shake my head. "They've got an entire room set up with nothing but one page of a newspaper lying on the floor. It's burnt around the edges, and you can't really make out any of the stories. But then there's one word charmed to hover over it." I spread my hands, wiggling my fingers. "' _BELIEVE_ ,' it says, except the _L-I-E_ part is in red."

She rolls her eyes. "As a journalist of integrity, I take offence to that."

"No kidding. And you can't even get close to it; viewers get funnelled off to one side, to make sure... I don't fucking know... we don't rustle the piece of paper? Seriously, I don't know what the hell it is, but it's not art."

She shakes her head in agreement, taking another drink.

"Don't even get me started on the main event, that Kapinsky."

"Kandinsky."

"Whatever."

"Also, 'not art'?"

I pause, watching her carefully. "What are you up to?" I narrow my eyes.

"Nothing!"

"You're going to write something horrible about me, aren't you?"

"Harry." She glares right back. "I'm covering the opening, yes, but only as a human interest story. The world likes to know what Harry Potter gets up to in his spare time. You told me it was okay!"

She pastes on that innocent expression, her blue eyes wide, that always seems to work on me. I don't know why I haven't learned my lesson yet, especially when I'm _not_ actually sleeping with her. No woman who isn't holding the threat of a withheld orgasm over me should be able to manipulate me like this. Christ. Still, I take a drink and tell her what I really think of the Kapinsky. She's never had it in for me, I know that.

What I underestimate is just how much she has it in for _Malfoy_.

***

  


  
_CATCHING UP WITH HARRY POTTER ON VACATION:  
LEIPZIG SHOW "BORING"; CROWDS SURPRISINGLY THIN_   


 

I stare at the headline, mouth open.

"Harry!" Hermione is saying, her hand over her forehead and her tea forgotten at her elbow. Everyone in the café seems to be looking at us. "You _didn't_."

"I– she said it was off the rec– I didn't _mean_ to."

"Draco is going to _kill_ you," she moans.

Before I can respond, my coffee cup shatters, the luckily lukewarm liquid spattering my arm. I whip my head to the side and draw my wand. Oh, fucking hell.

" _Potter_." Pansy is stalking across the café, her wand raised, other patrons hurrying out of the way as she continues to explode every item on our table. Her voice increases in pitch with every word. "Get out of my gallery. Get out of my city. Get out of my country."

I push my chair back and rise, meeting her wand with mine.

"Get out of my _life_ ," she bellows.

I grasp her by the wrist and angle her wand away from my face. Her face is red and she's gulping in heaving breaths, punching at my shoulder where I'm trying to hold her. I see Hermione back away, her hand also on her wand behind Pansy.

"What the fuck is wrong with your brain, you stupid fucking idiot?" She's shouting and pounding at my chest. "Why would you say that? _Why did you tell her that_?"

"She's pissed off at Malfoy!" I hold her forearms. Fuck, that last punch really hurt. "I didn't say it like _that_ ; she printed whatever she wanted so Malfoy would get screwed. You know she did."

Pansy ignores me. "I am going to kill you in your sleep, you arrogant fucking arse," she hisses at me. "I knew this would happen, that you'd say something idiotic to the press. Do you know how long we spent getting the rights to that fucking painting? Do you have any idea how much it _cost_? Now if we have a _single_ paying visitor tomorrow, I'll eat my own left arm."

"Look, Pans, I didn't mean to–"

She wrestles out of my grip and shoves me away. "Don't talk to me like you know me." Her voice is low, a tone I've never actually heard from her before. This isn't shrill and hysterical. This is pure, pulsing anger. "Don't you dare come in here after all these years and fucking–" she swallows – " _flirt_ with me and drink my champagne and act like you want me again–"

Behind her, I can see Hermione's eyes go wide.

"–and ruin everything I've worked for." Her hands are shaking.

" _No_ , listen to me, please. I didn't–"

But she just shakes her head and turns on her heel, striding back the way she came and slamming the door of the café behind her. I stare after her, dimly aware of Hermione fixing the damage she did, murmuring quiet incantations and apologising to the staff.

I fall back down to my chair, my arms hanging at my sides.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice is gentle. I look over at her and try to find the right words. She lets me take my time. God, what would I do without Hermione?

Finally, I place my palms flat on the table and meet her gaze. "I never told you and Ron. Or anybody, really. But there was one night, eight years ago, when Pansy and I..." I trail off, giving her a significant look.

She's quiet for a long moment, but then she takes my hands and squeezes them. "Well," she says, forcing a smile, "that certainly explains some things. And here I am giving you the talk about being nice to Slytherins."

I almost laugh, pulling my hands back to cover my face. "The worst part is, we _were_ getting on all right for a few days here. It almost made me think we could..." I clench my jaw.

"Maybe...?"

I give her a look, grabbing the paper and following a few lines with my index finger. "'It's just a couple of red and yellow circles that move around the canvas if you look at them from different angles!' Auror Potter told this reporter, his disappointment apparent. 'I should have gone fly fishing in Derbyshire.'"

Hermione shakes her head sadly at me. "I'm sorry, Harry. But give her a bit of time; maybe she'll come around. Stranger things have happened."

Maybe, I think. But I doubt it.

***

The rest of that day doesn't get any better.

Malfoy corners me coming out of the gift shop later, a talking version of Van Gogh's ear for Teddy in a package under my arm.

"You really are one stupid fuck, aren't you, Potter?"

I sigh. "I promised Hermione I would not fight with you and Parkinson while we're here, so just, get out of my way, Malfoy. Besides," I add, because I can't help it, "maybe if you hadn't tossed Astoria over for whatever bloody reason, she wouldn't be so pissed off at you."

He steps closer to me. "And maybe you should mind your own fucking business."

"It _is_ my fucking business! Now she's using _me_ in this stupid game she's got going with _you_ , and as far as I'm concerned, you can both go fuck yourselves."

"Why do you even talk to her?" he wails, his hand over his forehead. "If you're not actually fucking her, there is absolutely no reason, besides annoying the hell out of me, for you to sit around with my ex-fiancée, talking knitting patterns."

"Then I must do it to annoy the hell out of you," I snap.

At that, Pansy rounds the corner and stalks towards us. "Both of you, shut the fuck up. There's fucking tourists all over." She glances over her shoulder, lowering her voice to a fierce whisper. "Potter." She turns to me. "Are you fucking Astoria?"

"Am I what? _No_."

Her fury from earlier has turned into something else. Her hair and make-up are immaculate as ever, and her robes don't have a wrinkle anywhere, but her grey mood is somehow even more apparent to me than before – like a storm cloud too jaded to produce rain.

"Astoria's off men." I give Malfoy a pointed look. "Besides, she's not my type. Bit too bloodthirsty, that one. We're friends. That's it." The pair of them are still looking at me like they're about to pounce, so I swallow my pride. "And I'm sorry for what she printed, all right? Christ."

"If you weren't thinking with your dick, then there is no explanation for that interview," says Malfoy.

Okay, what am I supposed to be admitting to, here? "Well, I wasn't. I thought we were just talking. I forgot how horrible Slytherins are."

Pansy recoils. It's a small motion, but I see it. _Fuck_. She just shakes her head and turns to go, but I stop her, my fingers tight around her wrist.

"I'm _not_ shagging Astoria," I insist. Is that what she's been thinking? "The explanation for the interview is that I'm just an idiot. But you already knew that."

I can feel Malfoy watching us, but I don't even care. I pull Pansy closer, and she doesn't resist.

"You _know_ how much of an idiot I am."

She just shakes her head again, tight-lipped.

"I shouldn't be allowed to do or say anything, ever, without a chaperone." I'm desperate now. "I'm a caveman. I can't use a salad fork. I think Futurism should be something about robots."

Through her exasperation, she almost smiles. Her eyes soften as she looks up at me. "Potter," she sighs. "You're so..."

I let my fingers slide over her wrist, rubbing soft circles into her skin. She takes a shuddering breath.

"Pansy." That's Malfoy, his voice clipped, and I swear to God, I'm going to strangle him.

He places a hand on her shoulder, and she glances up at him.

"He's not worth it."

My fingers fall slack, and she steps away from me. She nods at Malfoy, swallowing. I let him steer her away only because I don't know what else to do.

***

When I think about that one unbelievable night with Pansy, I know my memory has enhanced it. I _know_ that; how could it be otherwise? But I don't even care. It's not that it was perfect. For an hour after that blow job, my dick was too soft to get it inside her the way I wanted. She got irritated at that and took over herself, making me slow down so she could grind against me and get off that way, and when that didn't work either, she backed up against the front door with her hands in my hair and one knee hooked over my shoulder.

She didn't come at first, and I was young and naïve and tried to _ask_ if she did, but she just rolled her eyes at me and pushed me off her. That was before she asked for a tour of the house, though. Knickers in one hand, she sauntered down the hall towards the drawing room, glancing back over her shoulder to see if I was following her.

Fifteen minutes later, I didn't have to worry about whether or not she'd come. I was pretty positive.

No, it wasn't perfect, but I _remember_ it, more than I remember sex with any other woman, believe it or not, even those more recent than Pansy. I can't recall exactly how she smelled or how her skin felt against my hands, but I remember how her dark hair looked splashed across my pillow. I remember how she crawled onto my bed, naked at last, and knelt there waiting for me. I remember the way her head fell back against my shoulder as I pulled her into my lap, my chest tight against her back and my cock hard all over again, pushing into her body at last.

I remember her hand on my knee, holding me still, while she breathed in deeply. Her eyes were closed, and her red nails stood out starkly against my leg, and I was _dying_ to move, to thrust up inside her and bury myself, but on her silent command, I waited. Slowly, so fucking slowly, she began to move her hips, making little circles in my lap as I tightened my hold on her waist. She increased her pace bit by bit, until finally I could tip her forward onto her hands and knees and withdraw completely, slamming back in and making her cry out.

That was when she first said my name. _Harry_.

I came with my teeth digging into her shoulder blade, my cock finally exhausted after that many rounds and a burst of come seeping out of her as I fell down beside her. I parted her legs and worked my fingers through it. Her nails were scraping down my chest in only a few moments, her jaw clenching as she pulsed around my hand. I kissed her, and she smiled lazily at me, and we fell asleep.

When I woke up a few hours later, she was gone. She never answered my owls. I moved on with my life, I suppose.

And that, as they say, was that.

***

I can't sleep.

Acting on what impulse I don't even know, I pull my jeans and a t-shirt on and head out into the night air, walking the half block to the gallery. I slip in easily, wondering if I should offer to fix those locks for her. Probably a lost cause. She's not exactly interested in collaborating with me on anything.

I'm trying not to be bitter, honestly, I am, but sometimes I can't help it with her. She presses all my buttons, and I don't even know why I let her. The thing is, she's the only woman who's really made me feel much of anything in years. The others, they can be beautiful and smart and successful, everything I should want in a woman, but... I don't know. I don't actually need someone to make me coffee in the morning or who secretly _likes_ being photographed when we're out for dinner. I don't need a woman at home to do my chores for me so I can – and this is a direct quote from someone I went out with once – "go out in the world and be _me_." She did some kind of jazz hands at the last word, too, as if _being me_ should be shrouded in neon sparkles. And I definitely don't need someone who's using me just to get to the limelight herself.

Christ. I don't know what I need. But Pansy... well. There's something really bloody appealing about a woman who _doesn't_ need me, who walks the other way as soon as I approach, who insults me to my face and means it. Who has never been charmed by fame or fortune. Well. Not mine, at least.

I see a splash of light and round the corner towards it. There is a single lamp lit in one of the smaller halls. My footsteps come to a halt as I realise the room isn't empty.

"Let me guess. You let Draco talk you into buying German shoes to fit in." Pansy turns towards me from her perch on a bench in the centre of the room. "Those soles are louder than a herd of hippogriffs."

I push down a smile. What was I just thinking about her appealing ability to insult me? "Like I'd go shopping with Draco," I call back, relieved when the corners of her mouth turn up.

She's silent for a long moment before speaking again. "What are you doing here?"

I approach cautiously. "Couldn't sleep."

"Guilty conscience will do that to you."

My fists instinctively ball up. "I don't have a–" I clench my jaw and count to ten. "Look. I don't want to fight with you right now."

"Then maybe you should go." There's no bite to the words, though. She pulls her wrap tighter over her shoulders and sighs. Stepping closer, I can see her more clearly in the dim light. Her hair is loose around her shoulders instead of in its usual upswept do. She looks younger like this, more vulnerable. Her make-up is faded and she's barefoot, her heels lying on their sides a few feet away.

I take a chance. "I'd rather stay," I say quietly.

She glances up, searching my face for a moment before turning back to the painting in front of her.

I take that as invitation enough, sliding onto the bench beside her. It's long, padded with something sleek and expensive, and I decide not to push my luck; I leave her some space, sitting a few feet down from her. I tilt my head at the painting, trying to see it from her eyes. "That's, uh, actually really cool." I'm not lying, believe it or not. Now that I'm looking at it properly, the painting that's drawn her here in the middle of the night is kind of fascinating.

 

  
  
_Horst Janssen, "Bobethanien #1"_   


 

She looks sideways at me again, I can see her from the corner of my eye, but I keep looking at the painting. It's hard to look away, actually. It's like it's crashing over me, the weird twists and shapes of it like a wilting piece of machinery that could trap me if I stare too long. "You... yeah?" she murmurs.

"Yeah. I mean, what's the..." I pause, trying to put it into words. "What do you think it means? You told me all this stuff has meaning, right?"

She nods. "What do _you_ think it means?"

Christ. "Is this a test?" I try to keep my tone light, but the harder edge must creep in.

"No, Potter," she replies, and now she's got an edge to her voice, too. Dammit. "It's not a test. It's a question. I told you paintings have meanings, yes, but I also told you that they can mean whatever you need them to."

"Need them to, or want them to?"

She's gazing forward again. " _Need_ them to," she says with quiet certainty.

In the low light, her silhouette is even more captivating than this damn painting. I almost sit on my hands to stop myself from reaching out and tracing her cheekbone with my fingers. "All right." I squint at the wrecked bit of chaos in front of us. "It reminds me of Dementors, to be honest, and branches of a tree spilling down, and..." I think about the grey, muted colours of it. "... metal twisting, somehow. Or melting. But also, there's something strong about it, isn't there? Decay and, I don't know, _sagging_ , but then look at the branches on the right." I point. "They could be leaning back like they're a bow and arrow, ready to fight back against whatever's assaulting it. It's... hopeful, in its own way. Devastating, but still hopeful."

I stop talking and venture a glance at her, only to find her staring openly at me. Her mouth is parted and her eyes are unreadable, but at least she's facing me for the first time since I walked in. I swallow.

"Or, none of that. I don't know." I look away. "I told you: I don't really get _art_."

"No," she says quickly. "That's not why I'm–" She stops and takes a breath. "I think you do get it," she says quietly. "You just... You saw meaning in it. It meant something to you. Right?"

"Well. Yeah."

She doesn't say anything else for awhile, so I try to pretend the silence is calming rather than awkward. I sneak glances at her when I think she's looking at the painting. She pulls her feet up under her after a few moments, sitting cross-legged on the wide bench. The pose manages to make her look both young and carefree, but still older and wiser. "I talked to Astoria," she says at last. "She told me she took some creative license with your quotes."

I let out a breath. "I really didn't mean to–"

"I know." She glances up at me, her lashes dark against her pale face.

I tear my gaze away to gesture back at the painting. "What does it mean to you?" I ask her softly.

She presses her lips together. I've seen that look in suspect interrogations: she's deciding whether or not to be honest with me, or rather, _how_ honest to be. She wants to be in control of how much to leave out.

I wait.

"I find it horrifying and comforting at the same time," she says at last. "Horrifying because of the chaos." She gestures at the painting. "You can just _see_ the very workings of the mind that produced it, can't you? Or, maybe, the society that produced it. It's a ruined landscape; that's one way of looking at it." She gazes down at her hands. "My parents took me on a European tour after the war. Now, years later, I can see that it was to get them out of danger, away from the prosecutions of everyone associated with... _him_. But at the time I was still stupid enough to believe what my mother told me, that we deserved a bloody _vacation_ after everything that had happened."

"You're not stupid," I say reflexively, wincing only afterwards for interrupting her.

She glances up. "No. Not anymore. But I was." She presses on. "We came here, to Leipzig, and I first saw this painting in the Museum of Fine Arts. I should take you there," she adds absently. "It's still one of the best."

I bite my cheek to keep from jumping on that, promising to go anywhere with her at basically any time. Instead, I give her a small smile and nod at her to continue. I feel like we're walking on a sheet of glass here, and I'm desperate to make sure I don't shatter it.

"Well, once I saw this, my parents couldn't move me. I stared at it for hours. It was... _Hogwarts_ , somehow. It was the Forest, and the surrounding village, and it was water and fire and air. I don't know. Something in it spoke to me, meant something to me, even if I couldn't put it into words." She pauses, glancing over at me. "Like you just now." She gives me a rare smile. A moment later, the spell is broken. She takes a deep breath and forges on. "But it was also comforting, because just like you said, there's a real strength to it, like the ruined landscape is fighting back." She's playing with a ring on one of her fingers, twisting it around as the burden of honesty gets the better of her. I've seen it in suspects before. People are uncomfortable with the vulnerability that honesty entails.

I think I'm falling in love with her.

"It gave me a way to dream," she says. "To imagine how things could get better. Without art, I don't know what would have happened to me after the war."

My chest tightens. This is getting into troubled ground for us. I have no reason to pity her, or to give a fuck what would have happened to her after the war. As Hermione used to say, how _dare_ she pretend she suffered? But even Hermione hasn't said anything like that for a long time. People change – that's what Hermione says now.

I've never really been the forgiving sort. For years I refused to believe Snape wasn't out to kill me, after all, no matter the evidence to the contrary. Then again, that was between the ages of eleven and sixteen, about what Pansy was when she made her biggest mistakes, and honestly, we were all bloody _children_. We had no idea what we were doing, not any of us, least of all me. And for a scared girl on the wrong side seeing no way out but a deal with the devil?

It took me awhile to come to terms with this, but I can actually see why she did it. It's not like we were friends back then, and it was a _way out_. That's all that would have mattered.

I shift closer to her on the bench, and she just watches me do it, neither protesting nor inviting. I raise one hand slowly, giving her time to back away if she needs to. She doesn't. I touch my fingertips to her jaw, skimming them slowly to her chin and tilting her head towards me. Her lips part, and I can see her chest heaving. I'm struggling to get enough air myself. I have no idea what I'm doing.

" _Pansy_ ," I murmur, just before our lips touch. Her mouth is soft and warm, and she still isn't pulling away. I don't try to go too far, don't try to deepen it. It's enough that she's let me come this close. I slide my hand around the back of her neck, my thumb resting against her pulse point. She sighs against my mouth before pulling back, her forehead brushing mine.

She reaches out to run her fingertips through the hair at my temple. She doesn't go any further either, and the next minute she's on her feet, bending to retrieve her shoes. She leans over once more and kisses the top of my head, her hand trailing down to the back of my neck before pulling away. "Goodnight," she murmurs.

Then she's gone, disappearing into the shadows of the darkened gallery, and I'm left gazing at this profound image of horrifying, comforting chaos. The irony is not lost on me.

***

So, yeah. Now here we are, me and Malfoy, talking women and sharing a bottle of brandy. I'm going to blame the entire fucking country of Germany for this one.

I hardly slept last night after Pansy left me in that cold, empty gallery. I guess I should be happy she's not coming at me with her wand anymore and has _maybe_ even forgiven me enough to let me kiss her. I can't stop thinking about that part. God, I want to kiss her again. But she won't– she'd never– I sigh.

"Look, Potter." There's Malfoy starting up again, his elbows on the table as he tries to focus on me. "It's hopeless, so quit pining, would you? We're both destined never to use our dicks again." He takes another swallow of brandy, draining his glass and making a face. "Merlin, this German shit will be the death of me. Maybe I need to try men. Lovegood's always sending me encouraging owls about that. Maybe she's onto something." He squints. "That bartender's fit, isn't he?"

I don't know what Hermione could have said to him to piss him off this much, but he sure is a drama queen about it. Apart from that, though, he's not _that_ bad; I should probably give Hermione the patented inter-house unity talk, if she's really still taking all that old shit from the war out of Malfoy. It's been almost ten years; it wouldn't kill her to lighten up a little.

"Well, isn't this a sight."

I brighten at Pansy's voice, turning quickly in my chair. She's smiling at us – albeit in a fairly patronising way – as she leans one hip against the bar. She turns to say something in German to the bartender, and I can't help but watch the curve of her lips around the syllables. He flashes her a grin and presses a short glass filled with clear liquid towards her. She lets her gaze linger on him for another moment before turning back to Malfoy and me.

I have to stop myself from climbing over the bar and throttling him with my bare hands.

" _Pansy_ ," Malfoy is moaning, reaching for her arm. "You _warned_ me she would fuck me up, and you were _right_. She's horrible. She hates me. She said Astoria will never stop going after me like this, and why should she, and if I did it to Astoria what's to say I won't leave _her_ , too, and also I'm probably still a Death Eater, and– and– she's the worst person _ever_ for me but I don't want anyone else and now she's not speaking to me and..." He trails off, leaning his head against Pansy's stomach.

Suppressing a slightly horrified look combined with a laugh, she pets the top of his head, sharing a look with me. I'm not sure what Malfoy's on about, but I grin back at Pansy.

"I know, darling. She's horrible. But I imagine you're still going to fuck her silly tonight, and tomorrow night, and for the rest of your days, because I've never seen you so arse over tit for a woman, even if she _is_ a Gryffindor." Pansy's still looking at me, and I'm trying to concentrate on that, but also, what? They can't possibly be talking about –

" _Draco_."

Suddenly Hermione's there, hovering near the pillars that separate the bar from the hotel lobby, looking rather agonised as she twists her hands together. She gives me a quick glance but then looks away. All in one movement, Malfoy snaps his head up, pushes Pansy away, and nearly knocks his chair over as he scrambles to his feet. He's across the bar in seconds, standing in front of Hermione looking... Jesus, more awkward than I've ever seen Malfoy look in my life. His hair's on end from tugging his hands through it all night, and his robes are wrinkled, the collar flopping open, and for once he isn't remotely calm, cool, and completely put together.

He also doesn't seem to care.

"What are you doing down here?" I hear her murmur to him.

He sways, putting his hand on the wall behind her. "I don't know. Drinking myself to death. It's Potter's fault," he adds. Then he leans into her, his fingers grasping at the sleeve of her robe. "I'm a useless tit without you," he mutters.

I glance at Pansy, my mouth open. If I thought she might share a wink and a smile with me, though, I'm wrong: she's tight-lipped, breathing evenly and watching me like a hawk. I hold her gaze for a moment before turning back to Hermione and Malfoy.

She's holding his left arm, cradling it, really, and sliding her fingers up his sleeve. He stands eerily still as she smooths her fingers and then her palm over his faded Dark Mark, whispering something I can't hear. Her eyes are big and bright as she gazes up at him, though, and then he's pulling her close, framing her face with his hands, and –

 _Jesus_.

– kissing her like he'd drown if he didn't. She curls her hands around the back of his neck and draws him in closer, his entire body crushing her into the wall. His fingers move into her curly hair, and he breaks the kiss briefly to say something to her, his mouth close to her ear, and then his lips are moving down her neck and jaw, and the look on her face tells me everything.

I exhale, leaning back in my chair and finally tearing my eyes away. I feel a lot less drunk than I did five minutes ago. Pansy is still standing beside the table, but she's gripping her drink now and gazing into it as if she's afraid to look at me. My brain is struggling to keep up, to be honest. It's been a hell of a week. But Hermione and _Malfoy_...? Okay, I guess I should have seen it coming. A lot of things make more sense now. All the art, for one.

I'm such an idiot.

I'll be honest: my first instinct is to go over there and punch him. He's _got_ to have an angle, doesn't he? He can't be trusted. He'll break her heart. But then I think of everything Astoria has said – and not said – over the past six months. He's never coming back, she said, and not just because she wouldn't take him if he did. He's just not. Now I think I understand why.

"If you're planning on murdering him," a soft voice says from my right, "at least let me get the gallery's affairs in order first? It would be terribly inconvenient for my business."

I smile, but when I look up at Pansy, it fades. Despite her light tone, her eyes are sad and her mouth is drawn down.

"It's completely impossible, a relationship like that," she adds. "I keep telling him it will never work, but he won't listen. You'd be doing him a favour, Potter, ending the delusion. I'll cover for you with the Auror office. We'll say it was an accident."

I laugh despite myself, quickly running one hand over my face to cover it. I peek at her through my fingers, but she's still looking pensive, if not mournful. "Pansy," I say quietly. I reach for her hand and guide her down into the chair beside me. "I don't think it's impossible. Look how much they want each other." We both turn towards them again, which is kind of a mistake, because they might as well be fucking right there in the bar. The bartender is watching them pretty avidly.

"It's just sex," says Pansy, shaking her head.

"No, it's not."

She finally meets my gaze.

"You know it's not. I just found out three minutes ago, and even I can already tell that much."

"There's too much between them. Too much..." She waves her hand. "... history."

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "Pansy." I wait until she's looking at me. "Why did you leave that night?" I wish my voice had more confidence.

Her mouth falls open, and she takes a long time before answering. "I was convinced you would have woken up and kicked me out anyway," she says at last.

"Kicked you _out_?"

"Or, just, changed your mind." Her voice rises. "Regretted it, at the very least. I didn't want to have to wait for you to stammer through some apology, and give me the talk about how it would never work. I couldn't..." She presses her lips together. "I couldn't have handled that."

"I owled you."

She closes her eyes, shaking her head. Christ, I haven't seen her this emotional since that night, watching her come undone underneath me when I first pushed inside her. I glance over at Hermione and Malfoy again. They've stopped devouring each other for the time being and are huddled against the pillar, foreheads touching, whispering to each other. God. I can't screw this up again. I can't push her too far. With all my willpower, I slowly stand. I reach down and brush a few strands of hair off her face, trailing my fingers down her cheek and jaw.

"The past is the past," I say to her, throwing another glance at Hermione and Malfoy to prove my point but then looking down at Pansy again. "It can work."

I have to walk away. She knows how I feel, but it has to be her decision.

"Goodnight, Pans," I add. I lean down to kiss her forehead.

I head out of the bar, pausing only to squeeze Hermione's shoulder as I pass them. I give her a smile, and her face collapses in relief. I tell her we'll talk tomorrow. Malfoy stands back, looking ready to fight me. I put my hand on his shoulder and lean in.

"If you hurt her," I murmur to him, "I'll light your balls on fire."

***

I leave the lift and start heading to my room, wondering if I've just made a huge mistake and lost my last chance with her. Maybe it's for the best, if I have. If it's supposed to happen, it'll happen, right? I'm not actually feeling all that philosophical about it.

All I know is that I want her more than any woman I've ever met. The fact that I've _had her_ once before just makes it even worse. That night is seared into my brain now. I'm pretty sure it's going to drive me mad one of these days.

"Potter!"

I freeze, then turn.

She's hurrying towards me from the lift, her eyes bright and her mouth set. _Determined_. My heart stops. " _Bugger_ ," she mutters when she reaches me. I back myself against the wall between two rooms and let her crowd against me. Her palms are flat against my chest and she's searching my face. "How am I meant to walk away from that?" She gives me a tentative smile.

I frame her face in my hands and just look at her for a moment, slowing it all down before I get in even deeper. Her lips are parted, and for a moment her eyes soften as she looks at me. I haven't seen that look in years, not since that _other_ night she let me strip her bare like this. Since then, it's been all hard edges and lancing words. I have to figure out how to get that softer look to stick around.

I lean down and kiss her.

She gasps into my mouth, arching her neck and pulling at my shirt. I still half expected her to push me away, so her breathless response is driving me mad. I'm already hard, and I've barely touched her. My thumbs slide down her cheekbones to her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. I rub small, light circles there for a moment, her mouth still breathless and insistent against mine.

"Harry, _fuck_ ," she mutters, biting my lower lip and tightening her grip on my shirt. "Why do you do this to me?"

I pull back. "Okay. Look, I– Nothing you don't want. But–"

"Why did you have to come here and _do this_ to me," she moans, but her chest is pushing up against mine. I slide my hand down her hip, curving around the flesh of her arse and hauling her even closer.

"You make me crazy, Pans," I breathe against her lips. "Always have. Want you so much."

Her lips curve into a sly smile at that. "Show me," she murmurs.

Oh, Christ. She's already pushed herself away from the wall and is sauntering down the long corridor, my room key jangling in her hand. Her hips sway, and her hair's already mussed up from where my hands wandered, and her lipstick is almost gone when she glances back over her shoulder at me. I rush to catch up, curling one hand around her waist as we stumble into my room. I've barely kicked the door closed behind us before she presses me back against it, her hands on my chest again and her cleavage almost spilling out of her blouse.

She moves her hands to grip my arms, locking me against the door and pressing her body in close. My cock's already hard against her hip, and she grinds against it in a slow slide of fabric, her fingers pinching into my biceps. Memories come crashing over me about the last time we did this. Even at nineteen, without much of a clue what we were doing, Pansy still liked it a bit rough.

I let her think she's actually trapped me for another moment, sagging under the press of her body, but just when she's getting comfortable, just when she thinks she has me right where she wants me, I flex my arms and step forward. I switch our positions, shoving her back up against the wall beside the door and holding her wrists above her head. The fury in her eyes escapes through her lips in a deep moan, and she rolls her hips into me.

I pin her, not moving. She angles her mouth for a kiss, but I duck my head to nip at her earlobe instead. A stream of curses comes out with her groan this time.

"Pans," I murmur against her ear, pressing my hips against her. "Want to fuck you _blind_."

She wriggles her hands free and tears her own blouse open at that, before I can even get to it. Her bra is low and lacy, and if I wasn't hard before, I'm completely lost now. Pansy's full, beautiful breasts have always been my biggest weakness.

She arches against my mouth, her fingers tight in my hair. Her nipples are big and pink and gorgeous, and she's so fucking sensitive, I could keep my mouth on them forever from the sounds she's making. I rip her bra down to her waist and push her breasts together in my hands, scraping my teeth over her skin.

"Harry," she breathes, tugging at my jeans. "Here. Come on."

She twists out of my hands and makes it to the bed, shoving her bra the rest of the way off and kicking her skirt aside, too. She leans back with only a tiny pair of knickers hugging her hips and arse. I stride across the room, hauling my shirt over my head and tearing off my jeans. Her eyes darken when she sees my briefs, the dark fabric tented and damp. My cock _aches_ at this point, already thick and throbbing from the sight and feel of her.

I crawl onto the bed after her, and she reaches forward, in a brief moment of tenderness, to take my glasses off and place them on the side table. I blink at her to refocus, and she runs her fingers gently through my hair. She's gazing up at me as I hover over her, giving me a look I can't quite read – as if she's still uncertain about doing this, or as if she's seeing me for the first time. A moment later, the look is gone, replaced by her usual pouty smirk.

"Don't want those scratching my thighs," she says, and I grin.

"No," I agree. "Wouldn't want that."

She props herself against the headboard and slowly parts her legs, her fingers trailing up the insides of her thighs. My breath catches as I sit back on my heels to watch her. She's always known what she wants and isn't afraid to go after it. Maybe I've always been attracted to assertive women, but even for that type, Pansy is in a league of her own. I follow her fingers with my own, tickling at her inner thighs and sliding up until my fingertips brush against her knickers. They're already damp, God, nearly soaked through, and I have to close my eyes for a moment. She _wants me_. I've been dreaming of this for years, if I'm honest with myself.

Slowly, because I know it will drive her crazy, I slip my index finger under the seam. I'm not even touching her yet, and already her eyes are fluttering closed and she's holding her breath.

"Pansy," I tease, drawing her gaze.

Her face is flushed, but she still manages to lift her chin. "Yes, Potter?"

 _Potter_. Oh, she'll pay for that. She's not going to fool me with that faux attempt to keep her distance, to pretend we're still that Gryffindor and that Slytherin, just out of school, with our last names providing the shield between us. "You're already wet," I say instead, inching the pad of my finger a little bit further into the seam.

She gives an irritated but breathless laugh. "Obviously."

"Why would that be?"

"Move your bloody hand," she bites out. "I'm not exactly here for a chat."

"Tell me what's got you so worked up." I have to be careful. The thrill of the game is one thing, but if I push her too far, she's just as likely to hex me out the door without my clothes.

But she's fighting a smile; I can tell. "No," she says, watching me.

"Pans."

"Figure it out."

I press my finger in further, touching the wetness between her folds. I slide it slowly back and forth, just a tiny touch. It's all I can do to keep myself from plunging it inside her and fucking her on my hand. Her thighs tremble, parting even further, and I see her stomach muscles clench. "Is it from wanting me to do this?" I murmur.

She doesn't answer, but her head tilts back and her lips part.

I press in a little bit more. Her body opens easily for me, and I circle her entrance a few times before slipping inside. She's hot and wet around my finger, and all my attempts to tease her go out the window. I press a second finger in without warning, and her back arches. She's more than ready for it, slick and pulsing. I push in steadily as far as I can, then stroke her inside with a light press of my fingertips.

She sobs, one hand covering her face.

"Tell me you want me," I whisper, overcome by her reaction. "Please. I need to know."

She drops her hand, gasping again when I stroke inside her. "Of course I bloody want you," she growls. My fingers slip free as she sits up, pulling me up towards her. She grasps my hips and positions me with my thighs straddling her chest. Her eyes are focused on my prick, still constrained in my briefs but straining towards her as best it can.

She runs her fingertips over me, a maddeningly light touch, and I half think she's just getting back at me for doing the same to her. I wet my lips and gaze down at her, steadying myself against the headboard. She touches me far too gently for what I'm used to from her, what I've come to expect even from our interactions this past week. I know she likes it hard and fast, to be taken roughly until she screams. I can't reconcile that woman with the one beneath me now, her fingertips pressing lightly over the damp fabric pulled tight over my balls and up my shaft.

I can't help it; I thrust towards her.

She moistens her lips and grasps my arse, holding me in front of her face. Then, she raises her eyes to look up at me. I'm nearly done for right then.

"Pans." My voice is shaky. "Please."

She grins, pulling her bottom lip under her teeth, and then pulls the elastic of my briefs down. They snap across my thighs, and my cock springs free. She holds it steady in her fist and wastes no time directing it straight to her mouth. I couldn't look away if I tried. I'm so hard it hurts, and she's brushing the tip of my cock over her bottom lip, letting her tongue curl around the head but going no further yet.

Heat sears up my spine and I can feel my legs trembling. All my fantasies of pinning her down and fucking her are flying out the window the slower she goes. When I kissed her in the hallway, I thought this would go very differently. I thought we'd be overwhelmed with passion and bad decision-making; that we'd barely get our clothes pulled down enough to fuck right there in the hallway; that I'd shove into her hard and fast; that it would be over in minutes and she'd blow me off, reapplying her lipstick and heading back to the gallery.

But _this_... this is like nothing I ever would have dreamed from her. I never want it to end. My cock is still sliding over her lips, and she's _enjoying_ it, the little vixen, giving me a sly smile as she teases me. Her tongue is light but insistent, lapping at me slow and even playful. Every nerve-ending in my body is lit up.

I choke back a moan, letting one hand drop to her face and cup her cheek. "God, you look..." I can't find the words.

She narrows her eyes, holding my prick back a few inches from her face. "... so good with your cock in my mouth?" she ventures, bitterness dripping from her tongue.

"No," I rush to tell her. " _No_. I mean, yeah, obviously, but that's not what I–"

"Shut up, Potter, and just bloody enjoy it. It might not happen again."

This freezes something inside me. I suddenly can't bear the thought. I pull back from her and sink down, stretching out beside her and cupping her cheek again. "You look like a goddess," I whisper, needing her to understand. "You just– I can't even tell you how–" Fuck. This isn't coming out right. But her eyes have softened, and then she's kissing me, quiet and breathless, and I move over top of her, letting my hands tangle in her long hair as I try to put everything I'm feeling into that kiss. "So fucking beautiful," I whisper into her hair, and my hips are already moving against hers.

She strokes my forehead and kisses me again, and then I see the fire re-ignite in her eyes. She bites at my bottom lip before letting go and pushing me onto my back. Rising from the bed for a moment to slide her knickers down and kick them aside, she crawls back towards me and tugs my briefs the rest of the way down. Her breasts sway as she climbs on top of me, and my hands instinctively reach for her hips. I smooth my palms up her stomach, my fingers skimming over her breasts, and then she's got my cock in her hand again, this time positioning it underneath her. "Less talking," she murmurs, lifting herself up and guiding the head to her entrance.

She's so _wet_. She plays with me only for a brief moment, sensation burning through me as she teases me outside her body. But then her eyes lock on mine, her lashes thick and dark against the flush of her cheeks, and begins to lower herself. There's a hint of resistance, her body tight and still not stretched enough. My cock is bigger than two fingers, I'm happy to say, not monstrous but plenty big enough, as Pansy should well remember. Her eyes flutter closed and her lips part in a gorgeous little _O_ as she takes me in.

I tear my gaze away from her face to watch each inch disappear inside her until my prick is enveloped in the warm wetness of her. I could die happy right now, I swear. When she starts to move, it's just a slow circle of her hips at first. I grin, because this is Pansy through and through: she's working herself over, not me. She'll let me fuck her as hard as I need to later, I hope, but not yet. Right now, it's about her hips slowly gyrating, grinding down on my cock and using it for her own pleasure. I venture one hand down from her hip and press my thumb between her legs. I push a bit further, in alongside my cock, to gather more wetness. She gasps at the sensation, giving me a wanton look, as I withdraw my thumb again and slide it over her clit.

Her entire body shudders at that, and she immediately leans down to kiss me deeply. "God," she murmurs. " _Harry_."

I love the way she says my name. I need her to say it again, to keep saying it, to tell me it's me she wants – not _Potter_ , not someone cold and distant, a caricature from the newspapers.

"Like that," she breathes against my mouth, and then she stretches up again, planting one hand on my stomach and lifting herself up and down on my cock. Her thigh muscles tense, and I can feel her arse flexing. I keep my thumb moving in steady circles, gauging her closely for her reactions. I could watch this forever, if I wasn't so desperate to come myself. Her hair is spilling over her shoulders, and her face is flushed. Her breasts sway gently and her stomach clenches every time she slides back down my cock.

She knocks my hand away and takes over herself. I grin up at her and clutch her hips to steady her. "Come on, baby," I murmur, flicking my fingers over one nipple. "Use my cock." I reach down and grip the base of it tight between my thumb and forefinger, because if I come right now and ruin it for her, she'll hex my balls off. I know that much.

She groans at the words, dropping her head down and rubbing herself furiously. I can feel when it happens, the very moment her body tightens and shudders. I arch against her and do everything in my power not to come as her cunt ripples around me, squeezing my prick and sending sparks up my spine. She sobs, her free hand folded into a fist over my chest. She pulls her other hand away from her clit but keeps grinding down on my cock in small circles.

"Pans," I say desperately. "You're killing me."

She smiles down at me and stops moving. "What do you want, Harry?" she purrs.

"Need to come," I manage, my throat dry.

"All over me?" She slides her hands up her breasts.

With a growl, I sit up and flip us over, my cock pulling free. "Inside you," I whisper, already panting. Her face crumples, and the mask is gone again.

She presses her hands up against the headboard as I push back in, rough and desperate. She lets me fuck her hard, the bed rattling against the wall and her hands bruising where they're holding on. But her face is alive with want as she spreads her legs for me. I grip her waist and press in deep, my balls tight against her arse. I can still feel her rippling around me, wet and hot and so fucking gorgeous. "Harder," she breathes, her chest heaving. " _Fuck me_."

I can't hold on after that. I slam into her, my cock thick and aching and my balls drawing up. Her hands move from the headboard to grip my arse, holding me in tight with every thrust. She's panting and swearing, urging me on, and my whole body is on fire. " _Pansy_ ," I groan. "Fuck. _Oh_. God." And then my dick stiffens inside her, pulsing in hot waves as she holds me tight against her, my balls pressed between our bodies. I grunt and bury my face in her neck, sensation ripping me apart.

My body's still pounding, and I can feel my come crowding the head of my cock and seeping down my shaft. I pull out slowly, watching her face. Her mouth pinches and shifts as I move, relaxing when I'm finally out. I can't help it; I watch my come trickle out of her. Even with all the charms in place, I can never get over the sheer intimacy of coming inside someone. For a woman to allow it seems to me the ultimate act of trust, letting me have access to her body like that. I lean down and kiss Pansy quietly, still breathless and awash in sensation.

I fall to the bed beside her and gather her in my arms. She's boneless and doesn't resist, which I think is saying something. Her hair is soft against my fingers, and her breath tickles my neck. I could stay like this forever if she'd let me.

After a long stretch of silence, our breathing finally returning to normal, I kiss the shell of her ear. "I'm trying my best not to," I say, "but if I fall asleep, you're not allowed to leave."

She smiles against my neck. "No?"

"Absolutely not."

"Hm." I wait for a retort, but it doesn't come. "I suppose that's fair," she says at last.

Triumphant, I hold her close, one arm tight around her back and the other hand lodged in her hair, angling her face towards me. I kiss her fiercely and she responds, her fingers smoothing over my stomach and chest.

An idea strikes me, and I pull reluctantly away from her. I swing my legs over the bed and haul my jeans on before I change my mind. She rolls over, sitting up on one elbow.

"Not even waiting for me to fall asleep?" Her voice is icy, but I just grin, pulling a t-shirt over my head. I grab her hand.

"Come on."

She squawks in protest but tumbles off the bed with me, righting herself with her arms around my neck. I pull her close, my fingers trailing down her naked hip. I lean down to kiss her, momentarily forgetting why on earth it was so important we get out of bed. "Mm." I pull away, trapping her bottom lip for a lingering second. "Can you Apparate us to the gallery?"

She blinks. "I– well, I suppose. But _why_?" Over her shoulder, she glances back at the bed longingly. "I'll make it worth your while _not_ to."

I groan but hold my ground. Cupping her face, I let my thumb slide over her cheekbone. "Please?" I murmur. "Grab the dressing gown there." I point to the hotel-issued garment folded on a shelf. "I'll Disillusion us."

She sighs but obeys, letting me know her irritation with every movement, but she's pushing down a smile, too. "Fine." She ties the dressing gown around her waist and flips her hair out from under the collar. "What grand adventure do you have planned now, Potter?"

I grin, pulling her close and murmuring the spell. I feel the magic shimmering over us. She wraps her arms around me and we disappear, emerging a moment later in the main showroom of the darkened gallery. I lead her to the bench in the centre and we sit. She's more cautious now, eyeing me sideways with an unreadable look in her eyes.

In front of us stands the masterpiece itself.

 

  
  
_Wassily Kandinsky, "Squares with Concentric Circles"_   


 

I put my arm around her shoulders and look carefully at it. She's quiet, giving me time to tell her what the hell I'm on about, which I appreciate. I can't put it into words just yet, but I _want_ to. This is my connection to her. It's suddenly important to me that I get it right. I raise my arm to gesture at the painting.

"It's just a bunch of circles and colours," I begin, and immediately feel her tense beside me.

"I'm aware of your feelings on the matter," she huffs, but I tighten my arm around her.

"No, wait. Let me finish. That's all it is, and that's all I ever saw. The way they're so closed, each one of them, it... made me think of... I don't know. The end. Decisions already made. A stamp, maybe. Something finite." I punch the heel of my fist onto my knee. "What do stamps usually say? 'Final notice,' or even... 'Rejected.'"

She looks at me, her lips parting, but stays quiet.

"But now, if I look at it a different way – a different _day_ –" I lean in and kiss her cheek, keeping my mouth close to her ear – "it doesn't seem so final. It seems open. It seems broad. Like the middle circle is the seed, and the flowers are opening. Or–" I feel my face get hot. This is stupid. She's going to laugh at me, but I don't care. I press on. "The circles are like endless motion. Moving forward. Like open... possibilities." I pause. I'm not even making sense. Christ. I should have stayed in bed with her and been happy enough with that. I rest my forehead against her temple, embarrassed.

Gently, she tilts my chin up with her finger, forcing my gaze. "Harry," she says, her eyes bright. "You're _terrible_ with art."

I mash my hand over my face, and she laughs, soft and deep.

"No, come here, baby." She runs her fingers through my hair and kisses me, her breasts pressing into my chest and shoulder. "I like that," she murmurs against my mouth. " _Possibilities_."

"Well, maybe bloody Kandinsky only got bored one day and drew a bunch of circles, I don't know." I grin against her lips.

"Maybe Kandinsky," she murmurs, "would have liked your interpretation just fine. And so do I."

Well, then, I think, deepening the kiss. Maybe he would have.

 

-fin-


End file.
